Sintown Chronicles III: In Dark Corners

by David O. Dyer, Sr.

  He returned to his motel room at six, snapped on the television and went to the bathroom to shower and shave. He emerged, wearing a towel around his waist and using a second to dry his hair. The phrase, “1296,” coming from the television caught his attention and he sat on the bed in horror, staring at the flickering screen.

  "Government satellite photos confirm that the flight went down near Havana, Cuba. So far we have no word on survivors."

  My God, Nate thought, Jodi will be worried sick. He glanced at his watch. It was just after seven. Maybe she hasn't moved out yet, he counseled himself. He rushed to the telephone and stumbled through the steps necessary to have the call charged to his credit card. At last, he heard the phone ringing. He counted twenty rings before sadly replacing the handset into the cradle.

  He checked his briefcase to be sure all of his notes were in order and spotted the tiny note containing his wife's Atlanta telephone number. He sat on the edge of the bed, got an outside line and dialed.

  A cross sounding male voice answered. “Yeah?"

  "My name is Nathan Watson—Pamela's husband—former husband. May I speak to her please."

  "How'd you get my number?"

  "Pam wrote several months ago, asking for money."

  "I let the bitch move in six months ago. Within weeks she cleaned me out and disappeared."

  "I ... I see."

  "Man, the best thing you ever did was dump that broad. She's bad news."

  "She dumped me. Look, if you should see her, tell her I called."

  "Mister, if I ever see that bitch again I'll slit her lying throat from ear to ear."

  The line went dead. Nate picked up the briefcase and trudged to his Taurus with a heavy heart.

  Negotiations for the voiceprint software went better than Nate expected and by eleven the contract was signed. He again tried to call Jodi and again there was no answer. Throughout the afternoon, he worked with programmers, learning to use the software and to understand its unique code, but at six, he made his apologies. He explained simply than an emergency had come up at home and he would have to learn the remaining details by trial and error.

  While driving back to the motel, Nate caught himself nodding. He knew he needed a little sleep before attempting the long drive back to Murrell's Inlet. He stopped at the diner across from the motel, ate dinner, and tears slipped from his eyes as he sliced a piece of chocolate pie in half.

  He could barely hold his head erect as he sat on the edge of the motel room bed, clad only in his underwear, and once again tried unsuccessfully to reach Jodi by telephone. He cursed himself for not replacing his broken answering machine, stretched out on the bed and vowed to take a short nap before heading home. He could easily be in Murrell's Inlet by dawn. Somehow he'd find Jodi, get down on his knees if necessary and beg for one more chance.

  * * * *

  At six o'clock Tuesday morning, Jodi gave up her attempt to nap. She kept assuring herself that Nate was a survivor, but during the long hours of the night, she came to accept the possibility he might be among the dead. She needed to notify his family, but the only family Nate ever mentioned was his former wife.

  She nuked a cup of cold coffee in the microwave, put on a fresh pot and went to Nate's study. She felt almost criminal as she tossed aside her goodbye note, booted his computer and searched the electronic address book for his ex wife's telephone number.

  Jodi whirled around to Nate's desk and lifted the telephone handset. There was no dial tone. She jiggled the disconnect button repeatedly, but the telephone remained dead. Instantly she seethed with fury. The man from Blue Sky may have tried to call. Nate may have tried to call from Cuba. She tugged the heavy telephone book from the top drawer of Nathan's desk and made a note of the number to call for repair service.

  Without regard for selection, Jodi threw on a shirt and a pair of shorts and drove furiously to the first service station she could find. She dug into her purse for a quarter, inserted it in the pay phone slot and dialed the number. Fury returned when she reached an automated menu. There was nothing to do but wait until the option to speak with a live person was given.

  With a rush of words she explained her plight and cursed the telephone operator when he coldly said the problem would be checked and cleared up within twenty-four hours.

  "I can't wait twenty-four hours damn it!” she screamed into the handset but, even as she spoke, there was a click and a dial tone.

  Jodi drove back to Nate's home overlooking the inlet, poured a fresh cup of coffee and returned to his study. She searched the drawers of his desk for any mention of a relative. When she came to the heavy metal box she hesitated, drug it from the drawer and placed it on the desktop. Tentatively she tried the lid and found the box unlocked. On top of the pile of papers in the box was an envelope addressed to her.

  "Jodi,” the longhand inscription read, “this is a codicil to my will, also in this box. My attorney's name is Jonathan P. Anderson and his office is in Myrtle Beach. If anything happens to me, take both the will and this codicil to him immediately."

  Jodi stared at the unsealed envelope for many minutes before getting up the nerve to remove the enclosed single piece of paper. She burst into tears while reading the short document. “I don't want your damned fortune, Nate. I want you!” she wailed aloud.

  "What's this about a fortune?"

  Jodi's heart pounded furiously as her head jerked towards the study door. “How the hell did you get in?"

  "The front door was unlocked, pretty lady. I heard you crying and followed the sound."

  "Don't you ever knock?"

  Bob Renegar ignored her, moved behind the desk chair and began to massage her shoulders. “You get any sleep last night?"

  Jodi shook her head.

  "I heard on the radio coming over here that Cuban radio says twenty of the passengers were dead when rescue workers arrived on the scene and another hundred have since died in Cuban hospitals. The sooner you face it, the better. Nate is coming home in a box."

  It was almost more than Jodi could bear. Unconsciously she sagged into his kneading fingers and tears glistened on her cheeks.

  "Jodi, he said, “the wife and I will see you through this. I told her about you last night. She's very concerned."

  "Thanks,” she said. “That's ... that's kind of you to offer."

  "Now what's this about a fortune?"

  His probing fingers felt good against her knotted shoulder and neck muscles. She reached for the codicil and held it up. He quickly read it.

  "Holy shit, Jodi. You're fuckin’ rich! Hot damn. The wife and I are going to enjoy living here Jodi. We'll be one happy, rich family. You'll like my wife, Wealthy Lady. She goes both ways, you know. Ever done it with a woman?"

  Jodi's mind was dull from lack of sleep and intense stress. Even as he pulled her from the chair, she struggled, not against him, but for an understanding of his words.

  He pulled her from the desk, bent her backwards over the conference table and clutched her throat with his left hand, pinning her head against the top of the table. She felt his right hand ripping open her blouse and roughly groping her right breast. “Baby, you've got a great set of knockers,” he sneered.

  She tried to protest, but his fingers tightened on her throat. As he lowered his mouth to her nipple, she spat in his face. His eyes flashed. He slapped her and then backhanded her.

  "Look, bitch. You belong to me now,” he growled. “The sooner you accept it, the better off you'll be."

  She felt him rip open the snap of her jeans. She heard the sound of her zipper. He forced his hand beneath her, grasped her jeans and panties and tugged. Jodi forced her bottom against the desk and, as he lifted his hand to slap her again, she jammed her right knee between his legs. He gasped, his eyes bulged and his grip on her neck loosened.

  Before he could regain control, she brought her knee up harder, again finding the mark. He screamed and tumbled to the floor grasping his crotch. She sprung from the table like a
cat, aimed carefully and stomped his hand that offered no real protection.

  He rolled on his belly. “Enough, damn it,” he cried.

  The toe of her sneaker found its mark. He again screamed and rolled under the table.

  "Get your sorry ass out,” she screeched.

  "I'm going, bitch. But this ain't over yet,” he gasped and, holding his wounded pride, waddled out of the study.

  Jodi followed at a distance and, when he descended the porch steps, he turned to her, standing in the open doorway. “I finished the garage yesterday. I don't suppose you want me to work on the pier house, do you?"

  Jodi glared at him, feeling in control for the first time in days. “Nate hired you to do a job. Do it. But if you ever touch me or set foot in this house again I'll kill you. I have a gun and I know how to use it,” she lied.

  She slammed and locked the door, checked the back door and all the windows. Two many cups of coffee drove her to the bathroom and, as she sat on the toilet, she prayed, not to God, but to Nathan.

  "Nate,” she said softly, “I love you so much. I don't know why it took this tragedy for me to realize it, but if you come back to me—if God gives us another chance—I'll make you the happiest man who ever lived. Please, please, please come back to me."

  As she washed her hands, the telephone began to ring. Thank God, they've fixed it. She rushed to the bedside extension.

  "Ms. Swanson?"

  "Yes."

  "This is Jimmy Gold with Blue Sky. I tried to call you all night but there was no answer."

  "The phone was out of order. I didn't discover it until this morning. He's dead, isn't he?"

  "I don't know ma'am. I doubt it. What I do know is that Nathan Watson was not a passenger on flight 1296."

  The words made no sense.

  "Ms. Swanson, are you there?"

  "I know he had a ticket on flight 1296."

  "Yes, ma'am, but he cashed it in just before the flight departed."

  "I don't understand. Why would he do that?"

  "The ticket clerk remembers Mr. Watson. When he arrived to pick up his ticket, there was an irate woman at the counter. She was incensed that the flight was sold out. Mr. Watson offered to drive her to Atlanta and cashed in his ticket."

  "Mariah!” Jodi said.

  "Yes ma'am. The clerk doesn't remember the lady's last name, but the first name was Mariah."

  Jodi swallowed hard. “Thank you, Mr. Gold. You've been most kind.” She hung up the telephone and tumbled onto the bed. “You two-timing son-of-a-bitch,” she mumbled into the pillow.

  * * * *

  Nate's eyes blinked open. He reached for his watch on the bedside table and focused. “Damn,” he exclaimed aloud. “I slept through the night. I meant to be home by now. It'll take an hour to shower and shave. Another hour to get breakfast. Hell, it'll be the middle of the afternoon before I get home."

  He reached for the telephone and went through the maddening process of charging the call to his credit card. As the telephone began to ring, he silently pleaded for Jodi to answer, but the phone just kept on ringing.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jodi's eyes opened to a narrow slit and she lifted her head, more asleep than awake. The bedroom seemed filled with an eerie darkness and she strained to read the illuminated numerals on the bedside clock. Two ones followed by a colon registered, but was it a.m. or p.m.? Surely she could not have slept all day.

  A blinding flash of light, the crack of a nearby thunderbolt and its diminishing rumble caused her to sit straight up and gasp. The sound of driving rain against the windowpanes was frightening enough but another flash of light set her heart to pounding. There was another, inconsistent noise. Someone was banging on the front door.

  On unsteady feet, she padded to the hallway. “Keep your shirt on, damn it,” she shouted against the insistent knocking and the sounds of the storm. She knew it had to be Bob Renegar at the front door, caught in the ravages of the raging storm. Why didn't he seek refuge in the pier house? Did she dare allow him inside the house? He had tried to force her to have sex with him only hours earlier.

  "Go to hell, Bob Renegar,” she shouted at the closed door. “I don't care if the lightening fries your sorry ass."

  "Please,” a feminine voice shouted back, “let me in."

  Startled, Jodi swung open the door and a soaking wet woman stumbled inside, literally dripping water on the great room carpet. The two women silently surveyed each other. The stranger was just on the short side of six feet tall, slender, long auburn hair pasted to her head and her sundress glued to her unremarkable body.

  "Is this Nathan Watson's house?” the woman asked.

  "It is,” Jodi replied.

  "I'm Pamela Watson. Is Nate here?"

  "You're Nate's former wife?"

  Pam nodded affirmatively.

  "Nate is not here, Pamela. It's a long story. We need to get you out of those wet clothes."

  Jodi headed for the bedroom with Pamela following. “Please call me Pam. Are you Nate's new wife?"

  "I'm not sure what my relationship with Nathan is, but we're certainly not married.” Jodi opened the bottom drawer of Nate's dresser and extracted a sweat suit. “There's nothing here that will fit, Pam, but maybe this will do until we can dry out your clothes."

  Pam began to strip off her soaked dress as Jodi pulled a fresh bath towel from the closet and tried to divert her eyes from the disrobing, uninvited guest. Jodi had never before seen another woman completely naked and she was embarrassed as Pam dropped her brassiere to the floor and stepped out of her panties, but Jodi's eyes seemed riveted to the nude woman's body.

  "What the hell happened to you?” Jodi asked as she handed the bare woman the towel. “You look like you've been beaten with a bull whip."

  Pam gently began drying herself and explained. “It was a thick leather belt."

  As the towel moved to Pam's stomach, Jodi gaped at the slender woman's tiny, dark purple breasts.

  "Nathan was boring to me. All he wanted to do was sit in front his damned computers all day and all night too. I met a great guy—a professional bowler—and, well, I left Nate. I thought life on the tour would be a blast. It was at first. After the divorce was final my bowler lost interest in me. The short story is, he left me stranded in Waco, Texas."

  As Pam stepped into the sweatpants, Jodi took the towel and began to work on the long auburn tresses.

  "I got a job in a bookstore, but it wasn't long before they went out of business. There were two or three other jobs, but for various reasons, I lost them too. I wound up as a streetwalker."

  "Pam, I'm sorry. Why didn't you call Nate for help?"

  "I thought about it many times,” Pam replied as she pulled on the heavy cotton top. “I don't know what stopped me—pride or shame. Finally, about six months ago, I did write. He sent me a check folded in a blank piece of paper. I guess I was hoping he would ask me to come back to him, but he didn't."

  "Let's put on a pot of coffee,” Jodi said, not wanting to hear more of the story.

  Pam wrapped the towel around her hair and followed Jodi to the kitchen. After putting the wet clothes in the dryer, she sat at the kitchen table. Both women jumped at the momentary flash of light and the sound of loud, rumbling thunder and chuckled nervously.

  "Being flat chested, I was not in great demand as a hooker, but I did okay, I guess. Gradually I worked my way back east. I must have been subconsciously trying to reconnect with Nate. Even after I wound up in Winston-Salem, it took me six months to get up the nerve to call him. The number had been disconnected."

  Jodi deeply inhaled the aroma of brewing coffee and tried to smile. Pam, like Mariah, was her rival for Nate's affections. She knew it. She knew Nate still loved Pam. Was he worth fighting for? Not if she had to share his love with two other women. “What brought you to Murrell's Inlet?"

  "I asked around and found out that my Nate hit the jackpot with one of his computer programs and moved down here. I even got his ad
dress. I intended to come to Myrtle Beach but about that time, I met a truck driver. He was pretty good in the sack and asked me to move in with him in Atlanta. I did, but it didn't work out. He wanted to be my pimp. That was when I wrote Nate for money. When the check arrived, I left the truck driver and worked the streets on my own. The cops picked me up one night. The judge let me off if I'd promise to leave town. I packed up my clothes, caught a bus and here I am. The fact is, I've been here for about a month."

  Jodi poured two steaming cups of coffee and joined Pam at the table. “You've been here for a month and are just now getting around to looking him up?"

  Pam sipped the coffee and looked through the kitchen window at the driving rain. “His number is unlisted. The first night I was here I saw him—both of you—at a cafeteria. When he looked my way, I ducked out of sight. I don't think he saw me."

  "Maybe he did,” Jodi observed. “I seem to recall him saying something about seeing a ghost from the past."

  "I lost my nerve that night. You are so pretty and the two of you looked so happy together."

  "Looks can be deceiving."

  Pam nodded without pursuing the thought. “I decided to save up a little and move on. The trouble is, it's too early in the season. There just aren't that many vacationing men looking for a good time at the beach and what few there are have the choice of much younger and bustier women than me. I managed to make enough to pay my motel rent, but a few days ago I hooked up with the wrong guy. He beat the hell out of me, trashed the motel room and stole what little money and jewelry I had. Management threw me out and I had nowhere to go."